


An Important Part

by Anonymous



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Exiles, Gen, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-10
Updated: 2010-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captchalogue Prompt:<br/>Assuming Noir somehow gets exiled instead of killed, and weakened and dazed from weeks without food or water, he ends up stumbling into Team WVPMARWQ's camp. I leave it up to the prompt filler as to what happens next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Important Part

On the silent desert landscape of a land once known as Earth, a Scurrilous Straggler shuffled his way forth. Presently, it was night time; the world just barely illuminated by a waning moon. That was just fine for the Straggler. He liked nights; nights were cooler; nights didn’t dry and shrivel him like a fruit left too long in the sun. Not that it mattered much; he was always dry in this barren wasteland. He attempted to swallow with what little salvia he had left, and absently turned his gaze upward in thought. The stars were shining brightly, almost seeming to twinkle in sync with each other as the moon bobbed and danced with each step he took. If it were a different situation, and if he were a different person, he might have even said it was beautiful.

But it wasn’t, and he wasn’t and any beauty that he saw, real or imagined, was likely caused by delirium from lack of food or water. That was what he would tell himself, because he had no room in his heart for anything but bitterness at the moment. The bitterness was something he had to hang on to. It was the only thing that kept his beaten and weathered body moving from day to day. Whatever strength he had mustered up for today was quickly waning, however, and his feet kept stumbling over one another no matter how hard he tried to get them to move properly. Another person may have seen this as a signal to set up camp for the night, but not the Straggler. Not the once mighty slayer of sovereigns.

No, he’d keep on walking until he dropped, just like he always did.

In the distance, something flickered. At first he supposed it was just his mind playing tricks on him, or a flash of dizziness. Yet, even minutes later, it had not disappeared and, in fact, only appeared to be getting closer. Now that he was on the verge of approaching it, he could see that the mysterious light was orange – most likely a fire. He stopped in his tracks, falling over into the soft sand from the sudden change of momentum.

Angrily gritting his teeth, the Straggler managed to pull himself up. He stared at the distant flames. This was the first sign of civilization he had seen in all of his time wandering. There could be food there, and water. Yet, even in his addled state, he knew whomever he would find there would recognize him. He had made certain of that.

It didn’t take him very long to decide that the risk was worth it, however, as he tugged up on the rags he had swathed himself in, taking care to cover every inch of his face except for his eyes. Even if he was recognized; even if they hated him and wanted to kill him; even if they did kill him, anything was better than continuing to wander this desolate piece of dirt for the rest of his life. It was with this thought in mind that he approached the campsite.

The sounds of warm conversation accompanied the warm light as the Straggler grew near. Whoever they were, they were somehow finding a way to enjoy themselves despite the circumstance. This was something he didn’t understand at all, but saw no need in questioning it. The only thing he cared about at the moment was whether or not they had food and water. In fact, he figured himself close enough to them by now to ask but all that came out of his mouth was a hoarse squeaking sound.

Thankfully, this served his purposes well enough. Despite the extreme hoarseness in his voice from lack of use, the campers seemed to have heard him. The conversation had stopped and they were looking toward him. Or, at the very least, he thought they were looking toward him. The glare of the fire was an assault on his eyes after nothing more than the soft glow of the moon. He was still for a moment, before cautiously continuing forward. None of them had made any sort of hostile movement, so he could be assured that they had not realized who he was. At least, not yet.

“Hello, wanderer,” said a soft voice. The Straggler’s eyes darted toward the origin of the noise. It was a shapely female with a shiny white carapace. She was sitting with an air of regality unbefitting of her clothes and her surroundings. “Would you care to join us?” she gently inquired, indicating to an empty spot beside her.

Without so much as a nod he sat down beside her, or perhaps collapsed would have been more appropriate. His legs had buckled beneath him, absolutely refusing to remain upright for an instant longer. Stupidly, he already found himself feeling sleepy, eyes nearly drawing themselves closed every few seconds. He didn’t even know these people, let alone trust them. Although, as his exhausted mind processed his new companions, he couldn’t help but feel that some of them were familiar. Unnervingly familiar, although he couldn’t quite place where he knew them.

The other female… he knew her… somehow…

\-----

“All I’m saying is, is that we don’t know if he has a permit.”

The Straggler awoke startled to the sound of voices, irritated with himself for falling asleep in the first place and leaving himself unawares.

“A permit to what?”

The two that were talking were obviously male, he concluded, keeping his eyes shut as he listened. Though he loathed to admit it, he was comfortable at the moment and didn’t mind taking his time getting up.

“Wander! Parade around the desert like he owns it!” the voice was gruff, and maybe a little high strung about this business of permits.

“We didn’t have a permit,” was the much calmer reply.

“Well, alright, but you of all people should know that this kind of stuff is what makes the government work.” There was a hearty smack, as though the person talking had brought the back of his hand down upon the other for emphasis. “You can’t run a democracy without the law!”

“I’m aware of this!” the other insisted vehemently. “Indeed, as mayor it would be my responsibility to keep those noble citizens that voted for me safe and protect them from all manners of villainy!” There was a pause. “It is just my opinion that permits are not really necessary.”

Groaning lightly at the idiotic conversation the others were having, the Straggler finally opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was that someone was watching him - someone that had a sword. It was the familiar female from before. Her eyes were narrowed upon him, and her grip upon her weapon tightened visibly once she noticed he was awake.

“You’re awake,” she stated coldly.

He did not respond to this, instead staring at the sword. Even if he didn’t immediately recognize her, he could recognize that weapon anywhere. It was a regisword, one of the many he gave out to the people who visited his office. Abruptly, it dawned upon him that this was the Parcel Mistress from so long ago. He chose not to voice this, however, instead delivering a curt nod. There was still no guarantee she recognized him; perhaps she was merely suspicious.

There was a long, awkward moment where the two did nothing but stare at one another. The former Parcel Mistress was the first one to concede, roughly shoving a can of Tab and another mysteriously unlabeled can of something toward the Straggler. “I guess you’ll be wanting these,” she said tersely.

He said no words of thanks, yet nevertheless hastily made a grab for the comestibles. He quickly popped the Tab can open, paying no heed to the strange hissing sound it made. Hastily he brought it to his mouth, remembering too late that it was still covered with shroud wear. Growling as some of the dark liquid stained his clothing, he huffily turned away from the persistent female watching him. He tugged the tab soaked clothe away from his mouth, still trying to keep it mostly covered as he poured the sweet brown nectar down his throat.

Tossing the used can aside, he immediately went for the unmarked one. This enigma of a can, however, had no easy way to open it. There was no tab to pull. He glowered down upon the hateful metal container, as though it was purposefully spiting him. Hesitating for only a moment, he brought this can up to his mouth as well, before attempting to open it by viciously biting it.

His attempt was an overwhelming failure as pain ripped through the nerves in his teeth. “Shit!” he croaked, covering his hands with his mouth and dropping the can in the sand. There were tiny dent marks in it, but no actual punctures.

“So you can talk,” the female behind him said, apparently amused.

Despite his apparently newfound speaking ability, the Straggler only responded with an irritated grunt as he once again picked up the can. He glowered at it for a bit, before grumbling something to his companion. “You have a sword.”

“Yes.”

The Straggler shoved it toward her. “Open it, then,” he demanded.

She made no movement toward the can. “No. Ask more politely.”

Gripping the can more tightly, the Straggler resisted the urge to throw it at her shiny white head. Who did she think she was talking to, anyway? “Do you expect me to say please or something?”

“Yes, I do,” the female countered, narrowing her eyes.

“Fine. Please,” he spat, jabbing the can in her direction again once more. “Open it.”

The can was ripped away and punctured rapidly before being pushed back into the Straggler’s arms. “Here.” Ungratefully, he snatched it away from her again and soon its contents were emptied, despite the fairly disgusting taste they had to them. It was better than nothing.

Exhaling with mild relief, the Straggler began to pick himself off of the ground. The Parcel Mistress imitated his actions, watching him carefully every step of the way. “Is there a problem?” he questioned, not enjoying being under constant watch like this.

She backed off slightly. “Not yet,” she responded, “But I don’t know who you are and you haven’t given me a feeling that I can trust you.”

“Hmph.”

“So I’m going to be watching you. Understood?” her voice was calm, but the regisword was being held in a decidedly threatening manner.

His only response was an unimpressed frown before he began walking away from her. Really, he could leave now if he wanted. He had gotten what he had come for, after all. Maybe it would be a good idea to steal some of their supplies, however. Who knew the next time either food or water would be available?

Casting a backwards glance at the ever-nosy female, the Straggler searched around the campsite for their victuals. Unfortunately, the majority of them seemed to be stationed around the two idiotic males. Getting close to them and their stupid conversation was not worth it, and he turned to leave.

“Hey! Hey you! Sir!”

There was someone yelling. It was probably one of the males. And they were probably calling for him. Growling in frustration and questioning why he was even answering, he shouted, “What?”

“Come here post haste!”

Aggravated, he rubbed his face with his hand. This was stupid. Was this other party truly trying to order him around? Him? “Why?”

“You appear familiar to me!”

The Straggler wheeled around to face the speaker. “Do I?” he questioned. It occurred to him that this was likely not the best course of action and, in fact, this was probably a pretty awful course of action. He had to know, however. Did this Dersite really recognize him?

“Yes, I seem to recall your face from somewhere,” the vagabond answered carefully. The tone was laced with a bit of suspicion but nothing more than that. “What do you call yourself, sir?”

The Straggler exhaled, irritated, as he shuffled toward the two males. “None of your business.”

“Identify yourself!” the other male interjected, annoyed by this clear miscarriage of justice. “All agents are required to identify themselves when asked!”

“We’re not really agents anymore,” he answered, obstinately refusing to give them a name as he took a seat near them.

“Polite apologies, sir! I was not aware it was not my business.”

Leaning back into the sand, the Straggler stared up at the still mostly darkened sky. The light of dawn was approaching somewhere from the East, turning the dark blue into a hazy grey wherever it touched. “Mm. I’m a Scurrilous Straggler, okay? Just call me that.”

“Very well, sir! My title is Wayward Vagabond, and this gentleman here is called Aimless Renegade!”

“And the white carapaces?” he grumbled, shifting his head slightly to try to get the meddlesome one back into view. She was still watching him, no doubt.

“The kind mail woman calls herself the Peregrine Mendicant, and the lovely maiden is the Windswept Questant.”

The Renegade cleared his throat forcefully, nodding in that he was apparently satisfied with the identification given. “Good. Good. I guess a citation won’t be necessary then, Straggler.” He patted the bazooka that was planted next to him. No doubt this wouldn’t have been a citation in the typical sense.

Regardless of the meaning intended, the Straggler still couldn’t help but scoff. “A citation?” The very word gave made his hackles rise. He had been forced to process so many of those things that by the mere mention of them he already found himself wanting to stab the Renegade until he was nothing more than a bloodied corpse. Sadly, that wasn’t really an option at the moment. There was a severe lack of shiny bladed weapons on hand. “Never mention citations to me again. Ever,” he growled.

“Ah, a lawbreaker, were you?”

At this the Straggler allowed himself to give a razor sharp smile, hidden to the others by the stained rags still draped over his face. “You could say that.” Regicide was typically described as a ‘crime’.

“Got your fair share of citations, then, eh?” the Renegade looked particularly proud of this. “I’m glad I gave out so many! Giving criminals like you a firm slap on the wrist!”

“Do you really think those citations did anything?” the Straggler grumbled, “Most people didn’t even pay them.” The majority of them just ended up as his scribble paper.

“Don’t be silly, of course they did. It would have been an infraction of the law if they didn’t!”

The Straggler shifted where he lay, turning to face away from the Renegade. There was clearly not going to be any reasoning with this law obsessed ninny and it was a waste of his energy to try.

“Straggler, sir,” the other male – Vagabond, was it? – attempted to get his attention. He had been staring at him curiously during the entire conversation about citations, but hadn’t said a word. “I’m almost certain I know you.” He paused, waiting for a response. When there was none, he continued. “But to be certain I request that you remove your shroud.”

“No. My shroud is staying right where it fucking is.” The Straggler sat up, fixating a glare at his fellow Dersian. He looked familiar to him, too. So did the Renegade. In fact, they all looked familiar, he just couldn’t place most of them and he figured himself damn lucky that he had managed to place the Mendicant before she had placed him.

The Wayward Vagabond seemed surprised for a moment, before his expression gave way to distrust. “I do not believe I like you much, sir,” he stated, reaching down somewhere beside him for something. It was only a sharp piece of metal attached to a meter stick, but the implications of him picking it up were quite clear.

Abruptly, the Straggler stood up. His fists were clenched at his side but he made no movement toward the Vagabond. He wasn’t stupid; it was obvious he was outmatched. There were two of them, three with the Mendicant, and one of them was heavily armed. Instead, he swiftly turned away and began to trudge off into the desert once more. It was something he should have done sooner. He didn’t need them after all. He had gotten what he wanted and no doubt he would find food and water again sometime. Even if it took weeks or months or years, he would find some and hopefully then he wouldn’t have to be surrounded by suspicious pawns.

“Are you leaving?” a soft voice questioned from beside him. It was the Windswept Questant, she had been watching the approaching dawn some distance away from the firelight.

There was no response, merely more shuffling through the desert expanse. This seemed to be fine with the Questant, who began to keep pace with the Straggler. “It would be better if you stayed.” Again there was no response. He didn’t even turn his head to look at her.

With a sigh, the Questant placed her hand upon his shoulder, which he quickly shrugged off. “Do you even know where you’re headed, Mr. Noir?”

The Straggler stopped walking, silent as he stared forward toward the growing light in the East.

“I see. You don’t,” the Questant gently surmised. “You’re going to keep going anyway, though.”

“Don’t tell me what I’m going to do,” Noir said with quiet venom.

“But you will.” There was a sort of resigned certainty in her voice. She turned back toward her companions, now all huddled around the dying light of the fire. “I’d like you to remember something, though.”

“Oh, really? What’s that?”

“We all have an important part to play, Mr. Noir. Even you.” With that said, she began to walk away, making a trail of footprints back toward the campsite.

Jack Noir didn’t move. He gritted his teeth. He clenched his fists. He glowered and he growled but he didn’t move for the longest while. He could only think on what the Questant had said. She had told him that he was going to keep going, as though she knew him. As though she could predict his actions with any certainty. She was a fool. He controlled his own destiny, not her. Not anyone.

Maybe she had been right about one thing, though. Maybe he did have an important part. But if he did, it was going to be on his own terms. Forcefully, he took a step forward, making his own trail of footprints in the sand.

The fact that they happened to run parallel to the Questant’s was irrelevant.


End file.
